Not All Martyrs See Divinity
by CrookedSpoon
Summary: One-shot. Would you die for me? he had asked them once. PG.


**Title**: Not All Martyrs See Divinity  
><strong>CharactersPairings:** Chikusa, Ken  
><strong>Rating<strong>: PG  
><strong>Word Count:<strong> 1150  
><strong>Warnings<strong>: nothing in particular  
><strong>Disclaimer<strong>: Standard disclaimers apply.  
><strong>PromptTheme:** V. 63. Ken, Chikusa, Mukuro - unbreakable bonds; "what's holding you here?" **khrfest**'s Round V  
><strong>Notes<strong>: Written in April 2011.

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><p>"Do you cherish your lives?" he asked them once, eyes fixed on the breaking twilight. And, "Would you die for me?"<p>

_Does he questions us_, they wondered, each to himself, word- and sound- and formless, never aloud. _If so, why?_

The motive was unclear and thus unjustified. Could these have been trick questions, or honest curiosity? And, was it justified for them to be offended and, in turn, questioning?

They couldn't tell and Mukuro never took the issue by the hand again, never seemed to show interest in their true alignment.

Yet the episode rings to this day, surfaces now and then. Could it have been doubt? In their determination, their loyalty, in _them_? What reasons did they give him?

Doubt has been a companion all their lives, tiny pinpricks wedging in the cracks of their conviction. They are pawns, that much is certain. Useful, yes, but exchangeable. As such, they needn't know about the rules to the game, the patterns in which they are moving or the goals they're aiming to achieve. Explaining is a bother. They can understand.

Without a peek at Mukuro's hand, the clues left at every scene are too little to go by, like mosaic pieces that would form a different image every time you arrange them. And Mukuro wouldn't let them in on his thoughts, misguides them as though he cannot trust them, as if he thinks they would rat him out the second he was out of sight.

Thinking about it this way seems ridiculous now. Paranoia, they can understand - abandonment not so much. Yet all signs point to the simple truth they do not want to acknowledge: Mukuro has left them behind, discarded them.

"Suck on that." Cavallo tops seven, Ken wins. Two rows of sharp-edged teeth sculpt his grin into something more menacing than victorious. Chikusa is unimpressed.

He doesn't mind losing, not when meals even cockroaches wouldn't touch are at stake. They have nothing else.

"Okay." Their heads whip around at the first clang of metal. "Playtime's over, ladies."

Like every night, the warden stands a foot from the bars, baton in one hand, the other holding its palm toward them. If this is supposed to be a demanding gesture, his pungent smell and bobbing Adam's apple give him away. Fear is incongruous on the heavy-set man.

He waits for them to return the deck, like good little children or convicts with a chance of parole. They are neither, but they play along. No need to make a ruckus over something as silly as a pack of cards they have to give back at the end of the day, all forty of them, because the security personnel is afraid they would turn them into weapons.

If they really wanted to harm them they wouldn't need cards to - what, papercut them to death? They are certain the wardens know that; children don't end up in high-security prisons without a reason or without giving them the chance at correction.

Night after night, the warden takes their eyes away. This darkness that clings like tar to the skin leaves their ears to paint the pictures. When there's no rustling of cloth, no gnashing of teeth, no low growling, Chikusa can almost believe he is deaf as well as blind. He hears things he shouldn't, keys clicking in the lock, ever so soft footfalls, but it's all in his head, it's the hairs stirring against his pillow, the blood coursing through his ears, right? No one is going to come in and drag him out by the hair. Not anymore.

His senses don't seem sharper for the loss of light, yet Chikusa continues to listen.

There they are, the footfalls, padding up the metal bars on the bunk bed. Chikusa doesn't stir, doesn't need to, the steps are too soft, too familiar to alarm him. He knows what this is about before he even feels the teeth sink into his neck again. His old wound reopens.

(The inmates scoff at the bitemarks, think they're part of some rough play he likes, or else some twisted ritual, but the wardens can't poke fun that easily - they're wary about anyone who breaks skin with their teeth.)

"I've been thinking," Ken says. Chikusa can almost hear the words vibrate in his skull.

"Go away," he says, but Ken doesn't move. He's restricted by the fists twisting into his suit, clutching at the folds. Tension leaves his jaw.

These children have grown old but not yet fearless, it roots deeper than their will, shivering in the dark, forever hoping that tomorrow never comes.

"What if Mukuro has forgotten about us?" Ken asks. Not 'When is Mukuro going to tell us what to do, how to proceed?' but the very question Chikusa tries not to think about, the very doubts he avoids to let out, because their poison is crippling.

And he doesn't want to share them with Ken.

What, indeed. Questions that, once manifested, are like bloodstains on the wall - attention-grabbing and hard to get rid of. What if Mukuro doesn't care? Or, further down the road: what if it was Mukuro who sold them out, because they became a nuisance or he had no more need for them? Or, What if he is dead?

The options weigh on his vocal chords; he can't reply. Ken bites down again.

How many nights can you hold out, without light, without purpose, without reminders, in darkness, dread and doubt, before you begin to see the end of your rope? Is that what's slithering beyond the edge of their vision?

Chikusa has leisure to let his gaze drift, while Ken digs into the breakfast he won. There are no clocks here and the neon lamps overhead can turn night into day. He has lost all sense of time, it's of no consequence here, where others rule your schedule and you just fill the hours.

He feels like a ghost, seperated from the dimensions. His own head resting on his palm has no substance and the rattle of Ken's chains barely registers any more than the jingle in a dream.

No, these aren't Ken's chains; another convict is brought in. It's Lancia - Mukuro, they have to call him now - with shackles at his hands and feet, two wardens at each side. Unlike them, he's not allowed to eat unattended.

Something is odd about him today, the way he carries himself, straight-backed and resolute, not his usual, resigned self. Chikusa feels his pulse quicken, his life return. Could Mukuro have called on him?

As he sits down, Lancia - no, Mukuro - returns his glance and for a moment, Chikusa can clearly see the blood-red iris.

"Would you die for me?" he asked them once.

They have thought it over many times, from different angles, but the answer never changes: "If you say the word."

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><p>[Cavallo] means horse, an Italian face card.<br>[all forty of them] - an Italian deck consists commonly of 40 cards.


End file.
